


killing my ghost in your memory

by aspalas



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Denial, Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, another 'in water' ending fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspalas/pseuds/aspalas
Summary: James didn’t remember ever seeing so much red in his life.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	killing my ghost in your memory

_I got a letter._

He secured it in a hidden pocket in his military jacket. The longer it sat there, James felt like it was burning a steady a hole in the fabric, silently urging him on to his destination. He had tucked his wife’s photograph in the envelope for safekeeping before he left the house, almost in lieu of a good luck charm. Today had been three years to the day Mary died. James hadn’t realized it until that morning when he went to get the newspaper and found the letter sitting under it, the envelope blank. It took him just a few hours (spinning through the stages of grief, to panic, then realization) for him to decide to make the trek back to Silent Hill. He didn’t need a map like the last time he’d gone. Mary had held it in her lap as the designated navigator, and gotten them lost twice on the way there, but only once on the way home.

_You promised to take me back someday. But you never did._

James had read Mary’s letter over and over again. With the first read through a coldness spread through his body, his brain denying the fact Mary could have sent this – it had been years since she had taken her last breath. But then he read it again. And again, until he realized that this couldn’t possibly be a sick joke. Tired disappointment dripped through each sweep of her impeccable cursive as James imagined Mary speaking to him, admonishing him, beckoning him to the town.

A long forgotten spark of anger ignited in the back of his mind as he began to recall that long and difficult year; he buried it as much as he possibly could muster. The long nights in the ward, Mary’s deteriorating state, the pitying looks his father gave him as he would tell James what Mary had said on his weekly visits… it was too much to bear alone. He tried so hard to move on. A catty voice in his brain wished she could have called on the phone instead of jailing him in with these thoughts. Another punishment.

He knew he had been a shitty husband when Mary fell ill and she let him know it. But he had done so much for Mary in her last days, and he knew how badly she wanted to come back— but there was always but or because that preluded his excuses—and for good reason, he thought. Since Mary died, he had so many arguments with himself, trying to validate why he did this or that. _We didn’t come back because you were too sick and I wanted to keep you safe,_ he would say to her empty chair. _I wanted to bring you home but the hospital said they’d take care of you._

In his imaginary conversations with Mary, ghostly Mary never understood his reasons. It frustrated James like crazy. Wasn’t it all for her sake—the overtime, borrowing money from his father, taking out those loans? He forced himself to stop and shutter out these thoughts. Focus on what he’s coming to Silent Hill for. Chasing ghosts was one thing, but arguing with them was damn near pointless (even if he had been doing it for years).

He parked the car and looked at the tunnel’s fencing that forced him to advance on foot. This wouldn’t be as easy as he anticipated; though to be fair, he had only one thought on his mind: find her. The way to his goal would justify any means necessary to get there, even if he wasn’t sure where it was.

James walked. He walked through the graveyard to the empty town and entered the dilapidated, aged buildings. This was not the Silent Hill he remembered. He shined his flashlight on dark corners, avoided those monsters as best he could. He tried to keep his mind clear, goal in sight. But something troubled him. The longer he spent in Silent Hill, a question crossed his mind: what if he had been wrong after all, for all those sacrifices? What if he met Mary here, all flesh and blood, and begged for her forgiveness—would she absolve him of his sins of apathy, ignorance, blindness? Make him repent in some way, and forgive him?

_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen._

* * *

It was funny to meet Maria, in a way. She looked like Mary and didn’t look like her at the same time. She radiated a different aura than his odd encounter with Angela; almost familiar, but not quite, like meeting someone in a dream and then later in reality. Maria’s familiarity made James happy and angry and sad until she opened her mouth to speak, her sharp tongue cutting through James’ delusions. Then James knew it wasn’t his Mary… well, until she happened to quirk her mouth, adorned with a vermillion tinted lipstick, upwards and smile. James felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Mary wore very little makeup, and yet he could imagine her with the same heavy lashes and applied makeup. She said she wasn’t his Mary, but James wondered if he had met her ghost instead.

“You said you got a letter from Mary, didn’t you?” she asked him.

“Yes, that’s right,” James said, wondering why she brought it up. Maria hardly seemed interested in Mary and he wasn’t in the mood to talk.

“Can I see it?”

James blanched. “No.”

Maria pouted. “Why?”

James winced internally. He knew that pout all too well. “Because—”

_There you go with the excuses again, James._

Maria’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Oh, wait… I bet she wrote something pretty private to you, huh?”

James was silent.

“I get it, I get it,” Maria said knowingly. “There’s nothing more romantic than pledging your love for each other in a letter. It’s private, so, none of my business.”

She walked a little ways off with that smile on her face, the tacky pink of her outfit a contrast in the grey fog, watching James battle with his inner turmoil. James didn’t know if she really understood or not. Sometimes he got the sense she was making fun of him – well, he supposed, she probably thought he was crazy. He certainly didn’t blame her for thinking that way.

It wasn’t just the secrecy of his failure James wanted to keep hidden away in his jacket from Maria. The idea that Maria, Mary’s lookalike-but-also-wasn’t, would read something his Mary wrote with her own calloused hands and read over with her slowly unseeing eyes, dressed in that drab nightgown she so loved. It almost seemed perverse that healthy Maria could even understand what Mary had been going through. He couldn’t protect her then, so he’ll protect her now.

He hoped Mary’s picture was smiling at him for that.

* * *

That little girl had a letter, too.

James felt deeply uncomfortable. He wanted to snatch her letter and keep it away, even if it was addressed to her. _To Laura, from Mary._ What could Mary even say to a little twerp? He wondered if she had talked to her about him—or did she call this kid to intrude on their reunion?

James gazed deeply into the red square merged to the desk of the Historical Society’s lobby. It was undoubtedly made of paper yet seemed to have the surface texture of a shallow pond. He wanted to brush it with his fingertips but something in the back of his mind told him not to do it. So he stared at it instead.

If it wasn’t for the unpleasant sensation in the back of his head he might almost feel strangely at peace. James realized the more he stared at these weird squares, which were scattered all over the town, long buried memories of conversations he had with his father and Mary began to dredge up from his unconsciousness. It was certainly odd, but it was also kind of nice to remember mundane, serene memories that he was surprised he had forgotten. Three years was a long time without her and his father was often busy, leaving James to just work, work, work and fall into a dreamless sleep when he came home. He didn’t question the why or how of it, but simply basked in the memories he forgot—it made him even more determined to go find Mary.

This time he remembered when Mary was looking up baby names. They wanted a kid so bad – Mary a girl, James didn’t have a preference (but he knew his father wanted a grandbaby; preferably a boy). But that’s all he could remember right now.

* * *

Red squares, red blood, Maria’s red mouth, the red pyramid thing. Black rust that used to be red was splashed everywhere; it clung to the monster’s knife and his ceremonial smock. Black rust threatened to devour the town and James’ senses. For all this darkness, James didn’t remember ever seeing so much red in his life.

James saw his blood too—a wine color spilled on his pale hands. Though he patched it as best he could, it still stung under the yellowed bandages he found in an aged cupboard. Red turned to rusty brown on his jacket, his pants, and his hands.

He was careful to double-check his pocket to make sure the letter was secure. He didn’t want to get Mary’s picture dirty when he jumped into his grave, which was sitting before him, open mouthed and wanting. He wondered faintly if he had left roses on Mary’s grave before he had come here (red ones – her favorite).

* * *

Nine red squares looked at him. Nine red square eyes, daring him to remember what he had forgot. They mocked him, shimmering, putting his sins on display.

James remembered. That day had been the lowest of his life. Worse than the day they found out Mary’s mother died, or the day the doctor told them it was impossible for Mary to have children, or when James found out he was let go of his job weeks before they were set to be married.

He remembered how that hellish day began and how he came to visit Mary in the ward where no one was ever around. How gently he held her rough hand even though his insides were churning with spite and a thought he had nurtured for a long time had finally blossomed and he was ready to bring it into the real world. How he gently slid the pillow out from under her sleeping head, held it to her face, and—

He stared at the squares, bile building up in his stomach. They forced him to remember even though James tried so hard to forget.

He took his knife and began cutting them up, slashing the crimson parchment on the wall over and over again, watching the pieces flutter down to the floor until nothing was left. A sea of red was resting at his feet. James remembered the flecks of red around Maria’s mouth in the jail cell, and Mary’s mouth in the hospital. He turned away.

* * *

He stood in the hotel. His flashlight had finally given out but James could see clearly more than ever, even more than the insight the red squares granted him. Something akin to the fog that rolled over the town had been lifted from his eyes.

Mary brought him to this hotel. For atonement? Acknowledgement? Did she know what he would find here?

He wanted to repeat what she written to him: _Well, I’m alone here now._

His legs took him up to the roof, to the doppelgänger that he mistook for Mary. He heard the stairway crash behind him, but he wouldn’t run anymore. No, a doppelgänger was a copy: the creature on the roof was a stand-in. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. She swore to kill him in Mary’s voice, and then cried for him when she was dying. _James…_

As he had done for Mary, James put it out of its misery with a bullet to the head—that’s what he told himself. _You should be grateful; I’m doing this for you._ Words he’d always wanted to say to Mary, especially when she swore she hated him, but knew would upset her even more. But this creature was not Mary, so it was okay.

Funny, he thought. She was calling for him too at that time. But he was merciful enough to do it while she slept. Mary must have been dreaming of him, calling his name. He had never realized how clearly blood showed up on white pillowcases and ivory skin before.

_In my restless dreams, I see that town._

He looked out at the balcony just as Maria had done. How Mary used to, when they visited so long ago. He was done denying that this was a dream; this was his reality now. Silent Hill was nothing but white. The fog seemed to grow thicker, more claustrophobic.

He put down his weapon and reached into his jacket for the envelope, feeling tears swell in his eyes. If he could just see Mary’s handwriting one more time, her smile that he missed so much, maybe… maybe this hellish reality would have been worth it.

He opened his pocket and took out Mary’s picture. She smiled serenely up at him.

The envelope and letter had vanished.

Was it a trick of the light or did Mary’s smile seem to be less serene, and more mocking? He remembered Maria’s cherry-lipped smile. James had a sudden urge to tear the picture to pieces. His hand trembled. Scarlet droplets from his fingers bled into the white edges of the photograph, spilling onto Mary’s face.

Had it all been a façade just to bring him here and force him to remember his crime—to face reality?

He had never received a letter. It had never shown up on his doorstep, unaddressed, without a postage stamp. He had never read it, jumped in the car and drove here… James felt sick. He remembered what had happened the day he killed Mary and everything before that but now he remembered after, and what he put in his car… no, not what, but _who_.

How would he explain this all this to his father? The police? He already knew what the courts would say: _first-degree, premeditated murder_. He didn’t want to think about the years he would spend for that.

 _If_ he went back.

A thought crossed his mind as he stared into the opaque surface of Toluca Lake, fog rolling over it in droves, almost with a sense of urgency. He could see the rowboat was still in the front of the hotel, waiting for him—waiting for him to go back to Mary. She had been waiting patiently this whole time, after all, just like her letter had said.

 _Just because you have a “special place” when you’re alive doesn’t mean you can’t make another one in death,_ James thought. She had been waiting for a long time now for him to wake up and remember. Even in death James failed her over and over again.

He’ll make things right. Maybe it wasn’t too late. He couldn’t give her a decent, proper burial, but he’ll grant a wish he couldn’t fulfill when she was alive.

James gave a long sigh and put away the photograph. As he did, he examined his jacket. Blood that wasn’t his had dried on his fern green coat, giving it a rustic tinge. His jeans and boots the same fate, and no doubt his face was covered with Maria’s blood (or whatever that thing was). He gave another glance at the lake before he began his descent down the fire escape, which had been mysteriously fixed.

Walking through the hotel, he passed the bodies of the pyramid monsters and the shredded paper, wrinkling his nose at the stench. The cool cobalt shadows of the hotel had given way nothing but black darkness, yet he moved swiftly through the waterlogged hallways. He passed another red square by the lobby, but that had been torn up too. He pushed open the hotel doors. At last he was outside.

The salty wind bit at his face, but he was glad. For the first time entering the town, maybe the first time since Mary had been hospitalized, he felt alive. Soon, they’d be together.

As he climbed into the rowboat and began his journey back, James shed his coat. Dark stains permeated the thick material, bleeding into the inner padding. For the first time, James realized he was tired of seeing red. The dull steel of the lake would suit both of them much better.

**Author's Note:**

> James isn't one of my favorite protagonists by far but the metaphorical imagery and symbolism he interacts with is so interesting to me. Reading the staff interviews post game was a huge treat, and I ran with some of their ideas. :>


End file.
